


Pieces of what is left

by larissita



Series: Back and into the rabbit hole [7]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Everyone is Dead, Gen, Susan Pevensie Never Forgot, Susan pevensie lives, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissita/pseuds/larissita
Summary: Nine tombs, nine bodies that turned cold in casquest, now seven feet under. And her, sole survivor of this tragedy. Waiting for life to end or maybe not. She learns to cope, she always did before. How could she not do the same now?
Relationships: Aslan & Susan Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie & Susan Pevensie, Lucy Pevensie & Susan Pevensie, Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie
Series: Back and into the rabbit hole [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632655
Kudos: 8





	Pieces of what is left

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so.... Thank you for all the kudos and the comments in the previous stories. Yes, I know, I know this took a very long time but honestly I have a new job and this whole pandemic is just driving me crazy. But I do have every intention of finishing this series before I go back to any of my other work. I promise.

_ Dearest sister, our gentle queen, _

_ As I write this, the sun has barely pierced the sky. It seems perhaps, like a silly thing to write about, yet the sunrise is always so beautiful. And sunny days are always so rare within England. This country is much more prone to rain. The sunrise always reminds me of Narnia, maybe for the many sleepless nights that were followed by this similar sight. As I write this it is a lazy summer morning and the world seems to still hang between sleep and woke. You’re making some coffee and Lucy’s still half asleep in the small couch of the tiny living room of the house in Finchley. There is little beauty and poetry to be found in these little moments and yet, these mornings can only remind me of moments too beautiful and already too fast gone by. Moments belonging to another life and to another world that we’ve both locked away a long time ago, moments we find only too painful to think about. _

_ I’ve lost the count of the many letters I have written for Lucy, Peter and even you. Though I’m quite sure I’ve written more for you. After all, Peter and I would leave for war often enough, and Lucy was never meant to come along, but she did. Our valiant sister could never stay away. You would be left to govern while we could not, and I was left scared out of my mind that we wouldn’t come back. So there have been a lot of these letters, all of them have ended in fire after coming from the war. A new one written whenever the next war was inevitable. Whenever the next fight would break. I find myself at a loss of words, having long forgotten what I had written in the other ones. I don’t even know why I’m writing this one, except this strange feeling of dread that seems to have settled down within my stomach. It refuses to vanish and I’m terrified that we will die somehow and leave you alone my dear sister. _

_ I have no idea how and when it will happen, I can only hope it never comes to happen at all. But I’m neither stupid nor blind to deny such a thing will eventually happen. Death is the natural course of life. I'm not vain enough to think I will die of old age. So there are a few things I can only hope for. _

_ I hope neither you, nor the others die with me. I hope you get to have a life. I hope you grow old. My dear sister, I know that you miss Narnia terribly, but life has given us a second chance. I hope you meet someone. I hope he's the love of your life. I hope you have kids, I know you’ve wanted to be a mother, no matter how many times you have denied such claims. You would always say that you didn’t possess the patience to be a good mother. We both know you were wrong in such claims. I hope, dear sister, that you will experience every single piece of happiness, big and small, that this world has to offer. I hope for it, above all else. _

_ Love, your brother Edmund, the Just King _

And that was it. The letter ended right there, with a simple signature, a signature belonging to another lifetime and to a different world. And now someone, who also belonged to another world. Nine bodies seven feet under ground. Nine tombs were nine bodies and nine caskets had now been lowered into. And only one survivor. Staying in the rainy day, a weather far too common in England. One survivor standing over nine tombstones, refusing to cry. Eustace's parents had already left the funeral. A bond with their child, broken too fast after the one summer he spent with Lucy and Edmund. All their bodies, deep underground, empty of life. Empty of all the things that made them so very alive. And Susan can’t imagine them. She can’t imagine Peter without a focused little frown decorating his brows. She couldn’t imagine Edmund’s cheeks without the rosiness of a winter wind. She couldn’t imagine Lucy without her bright wide smile. She couldn’t imagine Eustace without the calmness he had developed through the years, no longer a spoiled brat. She couldn’t imagine the others cold, dead, stiff. She could not.

And so Susan walked home, to the little house in Flinchley who had never appeared so big before. A house that was once full and now laid far too empty.


End file.
